Formerly President Senator Sythan Petrelli
by Nimfalath
Summary: Nathan Petrelli's journey of self-discovery, and the conflict of Sylar's imminent return. A collection of one-shots originating from my President Sylar Facebook profile. Rated T for general Sylar nastiness.
1. Distractions

This series of one-shots is best read together, but I believe each one could be read and understood on its own. These take place post "Fugitives."

I, as the President Sylar, reserve the right to use my own work from my Facebook profile page. You are not, so you don't. Stealing my work warrants a fierce reprimand, and I have a magnificent imagination to use to your disadvantage. I am not Tim Kring, however, so I do not own Heroes.

To find the "President Sylar" ::aka Gabriel Gray::'s facebook profile, add this to the end of the facebook address: .?id=829883839&ref=profile

Happy Facebooking.

* * *

_Tck-tock—tck-tock_...

I close my eyes briefly, slowly drawing in a breath and letting it out again. I open my eyes. I glance at the paperwork on my desk. I tap my thumb against the page.

I glance at the clock.

Pricks like pins bristle across the back of my neck, and I can feel my body stiffen. I glance at the paperwork on my desk. I tap my thumb against the page. I breathe in. I breathe out.

I glance at the clock, and my will breaks.

Standing, I stride quickly to the cabinet, open the door, remove the glass covering, and push the hand of the clock back a fraction of an inch, just barely sliding it back into its proper place. Again. The clock keeps ticking away as it had before, its small idiosyncrasy invariably setting its pace faster than normal. It'll be off by a full second in the next twenty-five minutes and thirty-eight seconds, but the problem is solved for now. After another half an hour, however, it will be barely over two seconds off—its erroneous pulse as abrasive to my ears as a screaming chalkboard.

Broken, no matter how many times I nudge the hand back in place.

"Noah can wait," I decide finally, taking the small clock back to my desk and setting it on top of his files. This is an unquestionable priority: I will never be able to focus on anything important as long as this minor problem remains unsolved. I'm a politician—my gut tells me—not a clock repairman… But as I slip the back of the disc away and reveal the tiny working gears, everything seems to wash away, and a satisfactory ease replaces the aggravation and doubt. I can do it. I bend over the innards of the machine, some revelation clicking into place somewhere in the back of my mind. It's only a simple matter of—

"_Nathan!!_"

I recoil, dropping the clock, blinking hard. "_God_, Pete, what the _hell_?" I breathe, rubbing my temples with an uneasy laugh. "When did you get here?" I pause for a moment and look up, noticing the color barely returning to his face. I feel my heart drop. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing but you," he retorts, his voice verging on panic. "Nathan, I've been shouting your name for like…a whole minute." He stares hard at me, nervously tucking his still-growing hair out of his face. "Are you feeling okay? Maybe you should take a break…"

"What are you talking about?—I'm fine," I remark, and it's the truth. Whatever daze had gripped me a moment ago has all but vanished. I feel like myself. I quickly shove the clock and its guts into a drawer to be forgotten, the gears spilling out and the clock long dead. It's not fixed, I note dismally, but at least it won't be a problem anymore. Peter frowns, unconvinced.

"Alright, Nate. That's it. I'm getting you outta here." God, I love that kid. He motions toward the door with his head, throwing his bag over his shoulder in preparation. I can tell he's struggling not to grab my arm and drag me out himself, and I have to admire him for his willpower. Hopefully his determination to keep Sylar's abilities won't break this time, because whether he tries to drag me out or not, I'm not coming.

"Peter," I groan, leaning back into my chair firmly. "I really do have a lot of work to finish up here. Noah asked me—"

"Forget him, Nathan," Pete mutters, taking a step toward me. "C'mon, lunch or something. I'm just looking out for you. You haven't exactly been yourself since that day with…Sylar." His eyes are begging. I fold my arms.

"Please?"

"No."

"_Nathan_."

"Peter."

He frowns, and I notice the cabinet and its empty shelf against the wall, standing like an omen behind him. I sigh. "Alright. Let's go." He celebrates his victory quietly, and I leave the broken pieces of clockwork to rot in a cluttered drawer.

Senator

Nathan Petrelli


	2. Red

This series of one-shots is best read together, but I believe each one could be read and understood on its own. These take place post "Fugitives."

I, as the President Sylar, reserve the right to use my own work from my Facebook profile page. You are not, so you don't. Stealing my work warrants a fierce reprimand, and I have a magnificent imagination to use to your disadvantage. I am not Tim Kring, however, so I do not own Heroes.

To find the "President Sylar" ::aka Gabriel Gray::'s facebook profile, add this to the end of the facebook address: .?id=829883839&ref=profile

Happy Facebooking.

* * *

_Nathan?_

Peter. He glances at me, fear in his eyes. No, not fear. Uncertainty. He cocks his head in the slightest way, watching me. Just watching me. _Nathan, are you coming?_

I have a lot of work to do, Pete.

_Come on, Nate, show a bit more originality. You always use that same excuse_.

I always… He looks at me again, the same way: not so sure, maybe afraid. Then again, maybe I'm the one who's not so sure. Peter's lips are still moving, a half-smile pulled crookedly across his face, but the sound has been stripped away and the room is a vacuum. In the silence I hear that undulating pulse, the one staple sound among the shifting lights and silence. Peter's heart. I can hear it thudding anxiously; hear the warm blood pulse through the arteries of his arm, his neck, his forehead. I watch his forehead now, listen to the rushing blood that feeds his brain. His forehead creases again…

_Nathan, can you hear me?_

and the crease becomes a line of red, a vision of spilling blood. It erupts from the line, marring his contorting face, staining his eyes—his half-smile—with a rusty cherry-red…and the instrument of it all—my single hand—extends further, drawing the bloody mark over the flesh of his scalp with a lustful...

I freeze.

Peter's forehead creases.

"Nathan, can you hear me?"

"_Nnng_…?"

"Finally, something intelligent," he laughs, and I feel Peter's hands on my shoulder, drawing me up. The blurred colors settle, and an awful ringing fills my ears. "Hey Nate, you gonna—"

"Gah!!" I moan, flinching at the intensity of his voice. "Peter, take it easy…God, you talk so loud…"

"See, Mom? He's okay." I glance up irritably at Peter and he greets me with that crooked half-smile…and then I take a moment to survey the room and find Ma standing over me, her arms folded uncomfortably over her chest and her face stiff with a frown. Good ol' Ma—happy and approving as always.

"How did I get here…?" I find myself asking, realizing suddenly that I'm at the mansion. Peter helps me stand, and Ma just looks on, scowling. There's something in her face that I can't read, and it's got me on edge. Her frown deepens.

"You came home a few minutes ago, Nathan," she answers, smoothing some wrinkle in her skirt. "You went upstairs and passed out. Have you been drinking?"

"Ma…"

"He's fine now," Peter answers, patting my shoulder. "He probably just had a long day at the office. You know how…" Funny. His voice fades away as another sound replaces it—a scurrying shuffle of feet, a click of a door, the slow and steady pulsation of a human heart… Funny. I look over at Peter, listening to the rush of blood as it flows in and out of each chamber.

"Right, Nathan?"

He's looking at my face now, his brows furrowed in an expression that clearly says _Come on, just say 'yes.'_

"Yeah," I respond obediently. "That's exactly right."

"You were never this overwhelmed, Nathan," Ma mutters, walking away with a disapproving shake of her head. "You'd better start focusing more if you expect to keep that office. Now hurry up, you two. I don't want to be late." The response must have appeased her, because she leaves the room and hurries down the stairs. Peter and I wait a moment in silence, listening to her heeled feet descend.

"Nathan, you _can_ talk to me," he whispers, his smile fading. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah, Pete. I know." He waits for me to say more, his hazel eyes searching mine. When I don't speak, he turns with a defeated, frustrated grimace.

"I wish you'd tell me what's going on," he says, stepping through the door.

"I wish I knew," I murmur quietly.

I don't think he heard.

* * *

Senator

Nathan Petrelli


	3. Another Casualty of Casual Downtime

This series of one-shots is best read together, but I believe each one could be read and understood on its own. These take place post "Fugitives."

I, as the President Sylar, reserve the right to use my own work from my Facebook profile page. You are not, so you don't. Stealing my work warrants a fierce reprimand, and I have a magnificent imagination to use to your disadvantage. I am not Tim Kring, however, so I do not own Heroes.

To find the "President Sylar" ::aka Gabriel Gray::'s facebook profile, add this to the end of the facebook address: .?id=829883839&ref=profile

Happy Facebooking.

* * *

This coffee is way too hot.

I blow on the drink before warily taking another sip, but it predictably makes no difference whatsoever. My small puff of cool air's attempt to compete with the searing heat of the liquid is laughable at best, and I set the mug aside to prevent further damage to my tongue.

Something is wrong.

A cap, a gown, a girl, a smile… Memories that I shouldn't have remembered, images resurfaced from a long-forgotten time. I take a staggering breath and return my attention to the mug, feeling like I should look and knowing immediately why. "It's from Annapolis," I muse, recognizing the emblem that I hadn't noticed at first. The empty room listens quietly as my fingers stretch to touch the handle. "It was a gift from a friend…Sophie, wasn't it…"

I take the thing back into my hands slowly, turning it over in my hands, ignoring the heat that radiates from its sides. Suddenly the images swarm into my mind, obscured by the dusty haze of cobwebs that had grown around them over the years. Pictures of my college, my friends, my parties, my teachers, and then—I begin to feel dizzy, overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of memories, sentimentality, nostalgia—I begin to see other images. Places I'm not sure I've visited, faces I can't exactly name, voices I don't quite recognize—memories that don't seem like mine, but they must be: I remember them.

I remember…

I recognize the buzz of a beginning headache and realize that I'm gripping the mug too tightly and sweating a bit too heavily, so I restore the mug to its place on my desk, turning to my laptop instead. I swish the wireless mouse until the screensaver disappears and head inevitably to my inbox first. Answering mail seems to take up the bulk of my mornings.

It's a good thing I have coffee.

The computer screen flickers another color for a moment, and my heart skips a beat. It returns to normal the moment after, but (being the technical genius that I am) I tap the screen to be sure…

…At least, I _move_ to tap the screen. Before my fingers can reach the monitor, a static shock sparks between my hand and the screen—a spark bright enough to be seen despite the well-lit room, and apparently powerful enough to short out the computer. The screen goes blank.

"Dammit," I moan through gritted teeth, slamming a fist against the desk in frustration. "That's _it_!"

Television I can live without. A microwave I can live without. My government computer? Yeah, not so much. This static problem has got to be taken care of fast—before I have to add a _fourth _electrical casualty to the list.

I draw a phonebook out of the desk drawer, and as I slide the woodwork back into place, I feel another wave of memories ease their way to the front of my mind, stealing a piece of the center stage for a moment before allowing the next to push in, and the next, and the next. I drop the phone book and pick up the abandoned coffee instead, rubbing my temples in a vain attempt to ward off the intensifying headaches. I take a sip—and nearly spit it out.

This coffee is way too cold.

And as always, the hum behind the headache, the face behind the memories, the feeling of anxiousness—apprehension—worms its way through my stomach…

Something is wrong.

* * *

Senator

Nathan Petrelli


End file.
